


The Scourge of Kyne

by FluffyPaws



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Companions, Gen, Reachmen - Freeform, Vigil of Stendarr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 11:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16428362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyPaws/pseuds/FluffyPaws
Summary: In the year 179 of the Fourth Era, the Vigil of Stendarr approached the Jarl of Markarth with a heathen trinket, a barbarian child, and a story that could not be spoken. One-shot, sequel to Winter of the Wheel, prequel to The Penitent.





	The Scourge of Kyne

Three years had passed since the fall of Markarth. But the Nords were not content in their victory. The crows brought word to the hagravens. Five-score Companions and a company of Vigils marched from the east, toward the peaceful Karthspire.

Wyress Raghnailt, old and gray, found her husband in their elk-leather tent. The Bosmer had grown strong over the centuries. But here was a battle that they and their soft village could not be prepared for.

“The Nords are coming,” said Raghnailt. “Find Branhucar, take the others, and go. Find Rorikstead. They owe the Reach their hospitality.”

The Bosmer nodded, then stopped on his way to the door. “And where will you be?”

“Fighting the match of the century, of course.”

“Don't lose this one.”

Raghnailt bent down for a kiss. “If this is it, at least you'll be safe. Take our daughter. Get of here.”

Brenor nodded.

“Don't wait for me.”

And before Brenor could object, she left. She passed between tents and makeshift sheds and smokehouses, ignored the startled faces of the other Reachmen, the small force that had begun to rally behind her, the calls of alarm. The stream led her down the mountain slope.

She had not gone more than half a mile when she saw them – so many men, rows and rows of darkened steel armor, a small group of priests and mages near their flank. A gray mass of longing cruelty against the greens and browns of the hills.

This was not a battle to be won with a single blade. Her wolf answered and she grew to stand at the height of a man and a half. The crowd below answered with shouts and flashes of lacquered pinewood.

Arrows struck her fur. Her hide. She watched, smiling, as each fell harmlessly to the dirt at her feet. The Companions began to yell, already in a panic that their steel could not scratch one beast. When they finally ceased their volley, she spoke.

“ _ **I see that taking your revenge upon the city was not enough for you! To think that you would chase your prey into the mountains for your blood-sport! Truly you are Ysgramor's heirs!**_

“ _ **And who are your mages? Is that the Vigil of Stendarr? Why does the Vigil bring werewolves to do its work?”**_

The panic deepened. Some of the Companions drew blades, others urged for calm. The Vigil, however, had taken their eyes from the great beast before them, watching their mercenaries for any hint of betrayal.

Perfect. Any discord among them would buy time for those higher up the hills.

“ _ **I know Glenmoril magic when I smell it, whelps! How many among you have shared in the tainted blood of your elders? How many among you have traded your honor for sharper teeth?”**_

Her ears picked up an indignant shout among the voices: “And who are you, beast, to judge us?”

“ _ **I am Raghnailt! I have walked Dagon's realm and slain the armies of Mankar Camoran!”**_

The Vigil of Stendarr scattered.

“ _ **I HAVE FACED THOUSANDS OF MEN AND BEASTS AND THROWN THEM INTO THE DUST! I AM A SERVANT OF Y'FFRE! THE EARTHBONES ANSWER MY CALL! AND I WILL NOT SUFFER LESSER DOGS IN MY DOMAIN!”**_

And that was the last warning she gave them. The ground shook beneath her paws as she charged, and the first in her path were rent with claws and fangs like obsidian.

Then came the roars, the howls, as men abandoned steel and armor for weight and teeth. They fell upon her and she felt the sting of new wounds. But they were just as vulnerable to a fellow beast, and with no armor, their bellies were even easier to reach.

For things half her size, they tested her. Perhaps it was numbers. Perhaps age. These things, for all their weakness, were younger and more fearless in their hunt. Bold enough to risk their own throat, if they could scratch at her hide.

Some had not turned. Raghnailt snatched one of their number, where he had thought to stab her thigh, and shoved him screaming into the maw of one of his fellows. The younger werewolf recoiled in shock, pawed at his mouth, and did not see the claws that struck him down.

Then came the pain, and the heat trickling down her back.

This Nord, unlike the rest, carried a gleaming silver blade in his gloved hands. A gutted Vigilant, one she did not remember touching, lay at his feet. The victim's scent clung to him.

“ _ **You turned on your own for that? Craven.”**_

“Die, monster!”

Raghnailt leapt out of the way of his stolen blade and called magic to her claws. Sparks scorched the grass at her feet. As the Nord began to circle, his age and status became clear.

“ _ **Your scent. You created all of these....”**_

The Nord answered by springing forward. Her paw struck first, but caught silver. She snarled through the burning pain and ignored the blood splattering the rocks.

The other Companions took courage from this. That was their doom. But the Nord who had wounded her circled and watched as his pack fell with torn throats and spilled innards. And when he found her back, she felt silver.

A few might have survived that battle, had they realized a werewolf brought to its knees could still bite, had they heeded the warning growls. But each had been greedy for the glory of the killing blow.

She watched from her bloodied patch of earth as the last Nord kept his distance, his ill-gotten blade still gripped tightly in his fist. The Nord merely waited, while crows circled above.

“Hircine is... going to like you,” Raghnailt spat. “To think.... You felled an old werewolf. With the lives of a hundred.... How many have you sent to Oblivion?”

“Be silent, beast. My brethren were true Nords. Now they feast with Ysgramor in Sovngarde.”

“Ha. You are truly Ysgramor's heirs... if you think you can use Hircine's power... and still be welcomed by Sheor. Already... they run in the Hunting Grounds. I wonder... which are hounds and which are prey?”

Even dying, the stench of fear was hard to miss. Raghnailt watched though fading eyes as the Nord stiffened and tried to stand tall among the field of corpses.

“Soon,” he said, “you will see for yourself.”

“Ha. My soul is my own.... And I... do not die... as a dog....”

–

The great werewolf of the mountains fell silent, and soon its breathing ceased. Kodlak watched the body and considered plunging his blade through the skull to ensure it would never rise again. But before he could act, two forms appeared: one golden, one ghostly in the mountain fog.

The pale image of a Reachwoman faced him. She gestured, a hand in one elbow, the other raised in a clenched fist, and vanished as she ascended. A hawk screeched.

The wolf locked eyes with him before fading into the mist.

The mangled corpse of a woman remained: furs torn, tattered skin and exposed bones awaiting the crows. The amulet at her throat, drenched in red.

The amulet would make a fine trophy to present to the young Igmund. He pulled it from the witch's neck, and turned.

His ears caught distant shrieks, his nose the scent of smoke. Those who had not fallen to the witch had gone on to purge the mountain.

The werewolf's grin and words lingered in his mind. The glory of the hunt turned cold and bitter.

He found one of the Vigilants, a shaken Breton who had not suffered many wounds, and shoved the amulet and the silver sword into his hands. The Breton could only stammer.

“Y-You.... You're....”

“Deliver that token to the Jarl of Markarth. Tell him any story, but if you value your head, do not disgrace Jorrvaskr.”

 


End file.
